Ladies and gentlemen, pals and haters, I have, as they say, good news and bad news. Truthfully, the bad news is that I’m not certain which is which. I’m very au courant in that regard. As such, I will simply report, and allow you to decide. I won’t waste your time here with nebulous designations like “good” and “bad”. Please, read on.
For those who don’t know; drawing these delicious strutting meatball monsters is kind of a pain in the ass unless you simplify all the feathers.
Happy Thanksgiving, everybody! Come on in and grab a plate and a chair, there’s plenty of food and room at the table for all of you. Just chuck your mask in the bushes by the curb, with all the discarded latex gloves, empty sanitizer bottles and other accepted detritus of 2020. I care about coronavirus even less than my neighbors care about litter or landscape pollution.
I owe you good folks an apology, I really do. This is gonna take some serious swallowing of pride, but I have to admit where I was mistaken. Here goes nothing.
Maybe someday, in some perfect future utopia where I am long dead, the vaunted generation known as “millennials” will finally experience self-awareness. Maybe they will finally uncover the reason why they are so vehemently despised by literally everyone who came before them.
Before I begin, I want you to understand that I have no reason to lie to you. I don’t care about alienating the companies I’ll be attacking in the following article because they have nothing to offer me.
The comic book industry I dreamed about being part of since I was a boy is dead. It’s never coming back. It will never recover.
Imagine you are a child in the year 1984, seeing and hearing this for the first time:
That opening theme is every bit as iconic as those of Star Wars, Indiana Jones and Buckaroo Banzai. It isn’t just triumphant; it’s Christmas, your birthday and post-orgasm in half a minute.
A long, long time ago, in a previous century far away, I wrote a song called “Doing Without”.
Inner gatefold collage of Tailothepup’s Yars Revenge
Yes, believe it or leave it, I used to “write lyrics”, although I never had much aptitude for it, and I preferred repetitive chants over sophisticated poetry. Plus, I was the vocalist out of necessity and proprietary right; I don’t have the greatest singing voice, I confess. I can carry a tune about as well as I can carry a Volkswagen bus. Not well, would be my point here.
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